


Rest and Recuperation

by Synchrony



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbo has had enough of this blasted cold, Cultural Differences, Domestic Fluff, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Fluff, Lake-town, M/M, Recovery, Sickfic, Thorin has Bilbo's best interests at heart, as frustrating as Bilbo may find it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchrony/pseuds/Synchrony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst the rest of the Company enjoy the feasting and festivities of Lake-town, poor Bilbo is still laid up with that terrible cold from the barrel incident. Thorin takes some time out to check on him.</p><p>[Combines book and movie canons]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest and Recuperation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ellakazelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellakazelle/gifts).



> Firstly, apologies for the slight lateness! I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> I've combined some elements of book and movie canon here. In DoS their stay in Lake-town is very brief and Bilbo doesn't get that cold. However, in the book they're there a while and Bilbo is ill for some days. I went with the book events but the characters are perhaps more like their movie selves. I hope that's OK!
> 
> Also, major thanks to my fantastic beta. :)

It was the sound of the door scraping the floorboards that awoke Bilbo— slow and halting, like whoever was responsible was trying desperately not to make any noise and was inevitably making it worse in the process. With a muffled groan he cracked open his heavy eyelids to find only darkness. He blinked, surprised. From the distant sounds of laughter and singing floating down the hall, the evening feast was well underway, yet it had only been late afternoon when he’d laid down to rest. Apparently he’d been more worn out than he realised.  
  
He rolled onto his back to peer towards the door, but brought his hand up over his eyes when they met with the lantern that his visitor was holding. Even the single candle felt so dazzling in the gloom that he wasn’t able to make out their face. Still, he was fairly certain he didn’t need to.  
  
“Thorin?” he tried, voice hoarse and still weighed down by that dratted cold. At least his throat wasn’t on fire any more— that had been one of the worst things. If he’d known how badly he’d be affected later, he would have thought through the escape plan a little more thoroughly. Right now, he would have been quite happy to never see another barrel again.  
  
“Yes, it’s me.” came the reply, as if Bilbo hadn’t recognised Thorin’s footsteps already. “I came to check on you.”  
  
The footsteps came closer, followed by a rattling of dishes as Thorin set down what Bilbo assumed was a tray on the small bedside table. Familiar strong fingers brushed his hair from his forehead, rings cool against Bilbo’s skin as the hand traced down his cheek before withdrawing too quickly for the hobbit’s liking. He opened his eyes again to give Thorin a look of protest, finding the light easier this time, but found that the dwarf was standing over him with such a gentle expression that his annoyance melted away despite everything. “Are you feeling any better, idùzhibuh?”  
  
Bilbo made a non-committal sound as he struggled to pull himself up, wondering not for the first time how in the world his body had become so heavy these past few days. "What time is it?"  
  
"Late," Thorin replied in what Bilbo thought was an entirely unhelpful manner right up until a volley of sneezes distracted him. One hand came to steady Bilbo’s shoulder whilst the other propped the pillows against the wall so Bilbo could settle back comfortably. "Time that you ate something."  
  
He pulled up the stool that had been left beside Bilbo's bed and settled down. Not for the first time, Bilbo thought that there was something different about how Thorin sat on that stool. Wherever he had seen him sit before— in his own kitchen in Bag End, on rocks and dirt out in the open, even in Thranduil's dungeon— Thorin had always seemed to treat it as he would a throne, straight backed and proud. But here, when it was just the two of them, Thorin's shoulders seemed to relax, slumping forward, forearms slung loosely over his thighs as he leant in towards Bilbo. It felt... homely, somehow. _Right_.  
  
Not for the first time Bilbo pictured them back in Bag End, maybe sitting beside the fire in the late evening, after dinner was done and pipes were lit. Thorin would lean in towards him just like this to say something, that strange softness in his eyes that Bilbo would never have thought possible the last time they were there, the firelight catching the clasps in his hair just as the flickering candlelight was doing now. It would be so easy for him to close the distance between them, maybe suggest they just forget their pipes and—  
  
He caught himself before that thought could go any further and felt his cheeks heat up with more than just the fever. Desperate to distract himself, he cleared his throat and asked, "So what did you bring?"  
  
“A selection of things. Whatever I could save from the others before they got to it.” Thorin replied in that dry half-joking way of his. “The Master has once again provided us with what appears to be the finest produce they can spare— and, of course, has invited himself to our table.”  
  
Bilbo felt his face twisting despite himself. “The Master... he’s—”  
  
“Useful, and a necessary ally. We need Lake-town’s support and their hospitality.” Thorin countered quickly, before adding more gently, “But I know what you are going to say about him, and I will not disagree.” He paused for a second. “My grandfather used to tell me that sometimes the King must make compromises for the good of his people. Unfortunately, as the years have passed, I have found this to be true more than I would like.”  
  
_Not true enough that you didn’t insult Thranduil to his face_ , Bilbo thought as he remembered Balin’s groaning despair as he recounted the tale to him. He managed to catch himself in time though, knowing that the subject of elves was certainly not going to lend to the peace of the moment. Instead, he ventured, “So, have you eaten?”  
  
Thorin smiled, taking the hint and settling the tray on Bilbo’s lap. Despite his bunged up nose and aching head, Bilbo’s mouth watered at the sight of the fresh bread and fish, roasted meat, cheeses. He tried to remember when he’d last eaten— perhaps that morning?— and found he was hungrier than he’d realised.  
  
“A little. I wanted to make sure you were doing well though.” Thorin said. From the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw his expression falter for a second. “I wasn’t sure what you’d feel up to, so I just got you some of everything. I hope it’s alright.”  
  
“It’s perfect, Thorin. Very kind. Thank you.” Bilbo reassured him, smiling as much at the sweetness of the gesture as at the mental picture of Thorin carefully assembling the tray of food for him whilst the rest of the Company swapped significant looks and (in the case of Fíli and Kíli, believing themselves to be masters of subtlty) nudges and smirks. “You’ll have to help me if I can’t manage all of it. I’m still under the weather, of course.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “You _can_ stay a while, right?”  
  
“Of course. I’ve already made my excuses to the Master and his party; I have a while longer yet. And none of our own would begrudge you my company, I am sure.”  
  
_Our own._ The words made Bilbo’s smile widen, and the heat was rushing back to his cheeks. Of all the things he’d thought to expect when leaving his home, this hadn’t been one of them. Out loud though, he said, “Well then. Let’s get started, shall we?”  
  
For what felt like a long while, there was silence between them as they ate, Bilbo trying a bit of everything and Thorin clearing up whatever was left. It was peaceful, companionable: exactly the sort of evening Bilbo had pictured in his more hopeful moments, where he still dared to believe that they might be able to pull this off and have something of a future afterwards, whether that was in his own cosy home in the Shire or in grand chambers of a kingdom in recovery. But dragons and diplomacy felt very far off, as did the rest of the world. For now it was just the two of them, side by side in the lantern light.  
  
Eventually there was nothing left but empty plates. Bilbo settled back with a contented sigh, which Thorin, smiling, took as a sign to move the tray to the bedside table once again. As soon as he’d set it down, Bilbo reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing tight and running his thumb over the dwarf’s rough knuckles.  He felt pleasantly tired rather than drained, for once, although his headache hadn’t gone entirely and he could feel it would still take at least a day or two to get back to normal.  
  
All of a sudden, Thorin reached out, cupping Bilbo’s face in his hand and tugging him towards him. Bilbo went willingly, eyes sliding closed as Thorin pressed their foreheads together in that now familiar way of his.  
  
He remembered the first time Thorin had done this, soon after the incident on the Carrock. At the time, he hadn’t fully realised what it meant, having only ever seen the gesture pass between family members: from Bofur to Bombur to comfort him when he was missing his wife and children in the Blue Mountains, or between Fíli and Kíli in sheer relief that both of them had escaped unscathed from the stone giants’ battle.  
  
He’d thought that perhaps this was Thorin showing his acceptance, or maybe even some sense of kinship— after all, he’d taken care those first few days after the Carrock to be particularly gracious to him, even as they fled from Azog and the wargs. In all honesty, he’d mostly been relieved that Thorin had been so gentle, as he doubted very much he would’ve been able to withstand the vigour of a dwarvish head butt.  
  
It was only a little while later that he realised what it meant, when he stumbled across Ori— narrow face twisted in fierce determination— pulling Dwalin down by his leather axe straps to imitate the same gesture. In that moment, he felt a sudden rush of surprise mixed with _oh, of course, this_. He’d left straight away to take Thorin aside for a much-needed talk on interpreting cultural differences, feeling very glad that Dwalin never found out he’d seen him blushing and speechless as a tween asked to dance for the first time.  
  
Things had been much clearer— and much better— after that. And right now, with his cold starting to clear and being alone with Thorin for what felt like the first time in forever and a dragon lurking in the mountain ahead and in the back of his mind, he knew where he wanted this to go again. Slowly he tilted his head, nose brushing against Thorin’s as he moved, mouth opening, Thorin’s breath ghosting over his lips—  
  
Then suddenly, Thorin pulling away. “No, ghivashel. You’re still sick.”  
  
_Damn it._ He thought of the soft, uncertain press of lips to his own in a hidden shady spot of Beorn's garden, the world around them completely still except for the rustling of leaves and the hum of the bees. He thought of the almost desperate way Thorin's mouth had sought his in Thranduil's dungeon, hungry with relief, fingers clasping Bilbo's tight against the thick iron bars. He thought of the quick kisses given and taken in between the tasks of the journey, and the long, lingering kisses on their bedrolls at night. More than anything right now he wanted to know how Thorin would kiss him here and now, with the days until they ventured to the Lonely Mountain distinctly numbered.  
  
“I suppose it wouldn’t do for the King to return to his Mountain with a stinking cold,” Bilbo huffed, knowing that it was probably for the best and hating it all the same. After all, Thorin’s forehead felt very cool against his own, when usually he was the one providing Bilbo with warmth in the middle of the night. Still, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t get some revenge— he brought his hands up to cup Thorin’s face before moving them back and combing his fingers right through Thorin’s long hair, pulling ever so slightly, smiling at the shaky breath the dwarf let out. “So, if I have to rest up still, will you at least stay with me a bit longer?”  
  
Thorin nodded, his face carefully straight in a way that Bilbo now recognised as a mask for his inner turmoil. “Of course. As I said, there’s none who would complain about me spending my time with you when you’re in need. Here.” He pulled at the pillows. “Let’s sort this so you can lie down.”  
  
Bilbo allowed himself to be guided to lie back down, hearing the scrape of the stool as Thorin inched even closer. After a while the dwarf began to hum. It wasn’t a tune Bilbo recognised, and by now he’d heard everything from epic ballads to mining ditties to bawdy tavern songs. He wondered what the lyrics were, if there even were any at all, and made half his mind up to ask Thorin the next day.  
  
Yawning despite himself— which he knew Thorin had chosen to ignore— he closed his eyes just for a moment. Thorin’s fingers began to comb gently through his hair as he carried on humming. Even if he had to wait a little longer for another kiss, Bilbo decided, this wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he’d even tell Thorin that, right after a little more rest.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Translations from Khuzdul:  
> **  
>  idùzhibuh: diamond  
>  **ghivashel** : treasure


End file.
